Visitant
by Pin Honoria
Summary: In the darkness the Emcee lingers. Based on the 2014 revival with Sienna Miller.


_A/N: This is a mixture of fiction and memories of the play I attended two days prior to publishing. _

~oOo~

_Words sound false_

_When your coat's too thin_

_Feet don't waltz_

_When the roof caves in_

~oOo~

By the stairs, the winding stairs, purple and blue light entered, poured between the steps leading to the etched, sibylline ceiling. His focus moved upwards, trailing the former golds and browns hued magenta in the lamp light. Leaning against the railing, smoke left as a ghostly cloud from his lips as the shadows of steps formed black, oddly curved squares over his bare, pale chest.

From the foreground Hans approached, sitting beside him, his back against the same cold metal. The Emcee's palms touched the bar, dragging himself onward. He leaned forward, lowering himself nearer the floor until he was on his knees, his face parallel to Hans' chest, his stomach. He knelt between the musician's legs, kissing the black vest over his skin, smiling afterwards, looking to the man's eyes calmly. The warmth inside shining through.

Texas was pregnant. A little baby would soon join them in the dressing rooms.

_Baby, baby_ the Emcee mouthed, his lips still close to the skin of another, pressing, pressing. He raised, his eyes forward, saying nothing. He took the railing of the stairs, wrapped his fingers over its smooth edge and glided downwards, to the orange-gold of the stage. To the lights, to the emptiness.

The red shaded lamps were aglow, their black tables and chairs blending with the darkness of the Klub as a whole.

He turned his head, his body colored by above. He raised his arm so that his wrist rested against the back of his neck. He heard a phone ring in the distance, but did not let it bother him. His eyes closed, his body moved, rocked in place to the music of the Klub.

_"Telefon. __Tisch Nummer 8,"_ a young bartender yelled.

_"Für mich?"_

_"Ja."_

A finger went behind his ear, his teeth to the inside of his cheek, pulling, drawing blood. Under his boots he felt the hollow stage, the boards bowing under his weight. He passed over the steps, the floor, to the table with a phone waiting.

Metal again pressed into the skin of his back as in his ear he heard an English accent, a man offering to pay for an evening alone._ "Of course, ja. I am free. Ja, Ja. Heute abend, gute nacht."_

Drops of green light fell downwards, to his feet, over the stage and table. His head rolled back. _What am I going to do. What is there to do. This is the rent. This evening. Let him do as he wants. He can't be as bad as the one from Tuesday._

He made for the three doors of the stage, entering one in red light, in silver, the mirror's backing. In this red he found Sally, her head lowered, a tin in her hand. She heard his steps and turned. "Darling, take these from me." The tin entered his hands. "I can't eat the beastly things, not now."

Inside were cookies covered in white powder. He removed one, placing it between his lips, and looked to her sadened eyes. She had been crying. On the floor his softly powdered fingers went to her knees and feet. He could feel her bones and in being able to feel them he hoped to heal.

She knew he was trying to comfort her and quickly wiped away her remaining tears.

"I have a date this evening," she said, inhaling, a distance in her voice.

"As do I," he replied, lacing his untied boot. The cookie was soon between his teeth.

"You want to borrow something?"

To his side he scanned the wall. "You can't give me a way out, can you?"

"Not unless you give me one."

He smiled and shook his head. "So much for that."

"Well, you never know. Maybe this one won't be absolutely horrid."

"One in a million, eh?"

"The _one_."

"Maybe for you, my liebling. Not me. The Kit Kat Klub houses the only angels in my life. My many, many angels hover in the rafters, suspended by their demon wings."

"Oh, so you see things others cannot. Do you see the horns on me as well?"

"Not you, Sally. You don't even have a tail."

"Nor a halo."

"You are something in between, yet neither."

Sally's fur coat was draped over the back of her chair. As she moved its hairs moved as she did. An unseen, co-mingling spirit persuading it to do so. Her dresses were in a line, hanging on a rack, on the beams of the ceiling. Shoes were scattered across the floor. In her hand a brush wavered, dust falling to the surface beneath as she applied blush.

Along the black of her eyes stood water waiting to create a trail. Staying by a means belonging to none living. _Oh let it out, let it all out_. But just as he didn't so did she. Inside it would remain until an ungodly hour of the morning when he would wake to crashing glass, yells. He to bruises, fear, alcohol. Under his bed he would reach, beneath the mattress, the newspapers. The day, the night, why did it have to come.

~oOo~


End file.
